HD 'Psyche'
by tigersilver
Summary: EWE; AU; Hogwarts, 8th Year; Mate!Harry; Veela-ish Magical Creature!Draco; Forced!Bonding; Unkind!Fate; Weird!Prophecies; Extra!Schmoop; Double!Flangst; Malfoy!Ancestors; Malfoy!Architecture; Complete!Bollocks and All!That!
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** HD 'Psyche, Or Draco by the Window'  
**Author:** **tigersilver**  
**Recipient:** demicus  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Word Count:** 16,600+/-  
**Pairing:** Harry/Draco, Lucius/Narcissa  
**Summary:** If just One More Weird Prophecy comes along, Harry's likely to run amuck and no one—but NO ONE—would blame him. Or so he tells himself, the morning after he finds himself Bonded (Joined? Married? Mated?) to a Slytherin Veela he knows all too well. Thanks to **demicus** , for her prompt, here: .and to **blackbloodrunya** for art to inspire, found here: .com/hd_  
**Warnings:** AU; EWE: Flangst; Creature!Draco; Mate!Harry; Hogwarts 8th Year.  
**Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.  
**A/N:** Many thanks to oddnari and lonerofthepack for awesomesauce instant betadom. It is both an honour and a pleasure on my part to GLOMP **demicus** , the darling. Dear, I've combined a few of your preferred prompts here (Creature and Marriage and Happy Endings) and, too, I managed to base it all on a scene that's been haunting my waking dreams for weeks now: _Draco by the Window_, in the form of the overall theme of this fic, which is loosely based upon the Greek myth of Psyche and Eros. Please note this goes up with some known errors, shortly to be corrected. Any remaining errors after that are all mine and mine alone, sorry!

GLOMPS from **tigersilver**

**0o0**

**HD 'Psyche, Or Draco by the Window' 1/3**

Harry rolled over, smacking his lips, and stretched. His bed was entirely too comfortable, and more so because it was a very nippy day outside, judging by the cool grey of early morning light prodding at his eyelids.

He refused to open them, on principle. He was a free man, and he could do as he liked.

Er…wait.

He was _not_.

With a gasp and a flurry of very expensive imported sheets and plump goose down pillows flying, Harry Potter sat up like a shot.

"Malfoy? MALFOY!"

The figure silhouetted at the window hesitated for a fraction and then turned, handsome features blank as a Buddha's, grey gaze calm and cool.

"Potter. Or more properly, Malfoy. Welcome to the first morning of the rest of your life."

Harry attempted to shout, swallow, and roar, all at once. The result was garbled and completely unintelligible.

"Fwah! Hurh! Nah! No-argh! Arse—blood—fucking! _**Fuck**_!"

Except for the last word, clear as a clarion trumpet call and punctuated with a resounding flop, as he threw himself back down into the warm nest of the bedclothes and worked on simply breathing, in and out, like a regular person, as his powers of speech—and especially the calm, quiet tone so utterly necessary when faced with an unalterable blow of mighty proportions from Fate—were fled.

His. Addled. Mind. That _was_ Malfoy at the window, wasn't it?

"Yes, I know, Potter." Malfoy stepped closer, and even in the murky grey-green of Slytherin's windows, which reflected the lake instead of the boundless sky Harry was used to and loved; even with an algae-tinted cast throwing shadow over that so-irksome face, Harry could clearly make out a smirk. "Thoroughly, as I recall. And no one likes it, believe you me, but still. Deal."

Harry couldn't believe Draco Malfoy—the exact same Draco Malfoy who, well, who tormented him yearly and always eyed him as if he were some lower form of the blood-sucking useless insect section of the world fauna—_that _Draco Malfoy could remain so steadfastly unperturbed in the face of purely unmitigated disaster. Disaster! And that wasn't even counting Ginny's fiery take on this whole debacle.

Harry inhaled. Harry exhaled. Tentatively, Harry unclenched his fingers, one by one, from the stiff, angry fists they'd instinctively become.

"Potter," Malfoy urged him smarmily, now actively strolling by the green-draped (green-draped!) bed on his way to the en suite, "get up. We must at least make a cursory appearance at breakfast. Headmistress McGonagall will be convinced I've murdered you in cold blood if we don't."

Harry breathed out. White, wasn't it? Or was it green? Green! Green drapes. Green drapes meant Slytherin and that was undeniably Malfoy and this was undeniably Malfoy's bed.

Harry breathed in, so hard his nostrils pinched. The door to the lav was pulled to, but not completely shut. He could see Malfoy's shadow moving in the glow of sconce light.

Right, so Malfoy was in the lav, right, and—_their_ lav, the one they now shared, just as they'd share pretty well most everything life threw at them until the fateful day one or the other of them had the good fortune to pass on and stop with this bloody, _un_-required sharing of same!

"Fuck!" Harry shouted, making use of all that extra oxygen he'd accumulated via huffing every second breath. Eyes wide open and fixed on the bloody _green_ canopy, he hissed, "Fucking fuckity fuck **fuck**! How _can_ you be so CALM, Malfoy?"

"What? What's that? Do cease your infernal howling, Potter—I'm occupied at the moment. Shaving."

The git poked his head out the partially closed bathroom door, wand in one hand, shaving brush in the other. Foamy lather dripped from his chin and onto his deep green (green! _Slytherin_ green!) paisley robe. Harry wondered—with the one tiny part of his mind not actively beavering away at making his hands unclench for the second time since waking, so that perhaps he could use them more effectively for punching the git's face to a bloody non-green mash—why the smooth-cheeked, silver-eyed prat bothered with shaving at all. His beard was so light as to be invisible; his sodding skin was perfectly smoo—oh!

One hand, still curled convulsively, went flying to Harry's neck. His eyes popped. _No_—that was _not_ quite true. He'd the fucking stubble burn to prove it. It smarted.

All down his neck.

Lower, too.

Much lower.

"This is so very not good," Harry moaned piteously. He shifted his bum with some trepidation, and yes, that ached, too. Deeply, almost pleasantly, and with more than a slight hint of leftover sybaritic pleasure that was really quite unnecessary, thanks ever so much, Oh, Unkind Fate. He'd prefer not to remember.

Really. _Not_.

"We can practice wands at dawn later, after breakfast, Potter," the echoing voice called faintly, for Malfoy had once again retreated to his steamy sink and his pointless shaving. "If you insist on being a prat over this. I'd not mind being a widower, you know. Would be less noisy."

He'd been shagged, good and proper. By Malfoy. Harry had.

The blond head poked out again and Harry noticed Malfoy's eyes were gleaming with something quite unreadable above his haughty nostrils.

"Only till I kicked it, of course," the git nodded meaningfully, rubbing his chin with a snowy white towel and waving his wand. "Shortly thereafter. But I'm sure I'd enjoy the quiet while it lasted, nonetheless."

"The fuck you will be, Malfoy!" Harry bellowed, and hastily began the slow struggle to convince his somewhat overly relaxed and deliciously achy person that exiting the too-green bed was a preferable course of action to laying prone and allowing Malfoy to irritate him further. "That'll be _me_, berk! Being the widower, I mean! Oh, my bloody Merlin!"

Harry's body, happy where it was, responded with a quiet but decided, '_No_!'

"No, no," Malfoy's tone was amused, so much so that Harry gritted his teeth as he finally managed to will all his contrary muscles to cooperate. My, but didn't his arse pang something awful!

"Completely _not_ to the point, Potter. I've not made it this far to bite it merely due to something stupid—even if you _are_, without doubt, something stupid."

The tiled walls of the lav added an extra edge of sarcasm to Malfoy's remark, one that Harry simply couldn't accept, not in his fragile state. He achieved vertical, despite himself, at last perching gingerly on the very edge of the ginormously green bed and glaring at the blank door that led to the loo.

"Graaaah! Mallfoy! I hate you! You _suck_, you prick!"

The force of this cry from the heart—and the arse—had Harry impelled to his bare feet in a lunge, albeit quite wobbly-kneed. His arse had gone from happy reminders of a vehement rogering to being a right pain—in itself. Twitches and electrified tingles radiated out through all his many nerve endings from a place deep within him he would swear had been completely rearranged internally, and likely with a blunt instrument, from the feel of it. And his gut? Oh, the acid of mortification gurgled there, bubbling! The mere thought of a fry-up breakfast left Harry queasy.

Malfoy's room—for this _was _Malfoy's room, and now by stroke of Fate, his, as well—spun a heady turn, all green-silver swimmy and pulsing. The blood roared in Harry's ears. The floor appeared to be approaching.

Rapidly.

He swayed, and heard a distant clatter and a muffled 'plonk!' as he blinked his bloodshot eyes furiously. Darkness was descending, in waves of red-black, and he was falling, falling—

"Idiot," Malfoy's voice practically sliced Harry's earlobe off, it was so bitterly sharp. "I told you to rise for breakfast, but not to follow that up with braining yourself on my bed post. You do me no good dead, Potter. Steady on. Belt up."

"Ugh."

"Exactly, Potter."

Morose to the extreme, what with one thing (all this green!) and another (his poor arse!), Harry sighed hugely, his face pressed into Malfoy's silk-clad shoulder, and concentrated on forcing the residual nausea to ebb away. Malfoy's arms clamped about him, even though abhorrent, were both delightfully warm and rock hard. Harry blinked again, and the trickle of ominous confusion once again became a torrent.

"How—_how_ can you be so cool about this, Malfoy?" he whispered. "How is that even possible? You hate me. I hate you. We hate each other. Burning, passionate hate. Very simple."

Malfoy shrugged, and Harry felt a now-cold plop of leftover lather press into his fringe and then slide wetly down the side of his clenched jaw. It dripped slowly onto his bare shoulder, smelling faintly of citrus, and he blinked again, perilously near tears.

If just one more sodding magical intervention occurred in his ill-fated life—just one!—he'd go fucking mental, and then run amuck. And no one—not even Hermione—_no one_ would blame him for an instant.

He'd been shagged by Malfoy. Just last night.

Legally.

Merlin!

"How?" he demanded, and began to pull himself away from the bastard arse who must've moved at the speed of light to beat feet from the toilet to the bedside in time to catch him. Veela were bloody well impressive, if nothing else. Or if _not _Veela—there was some question as to that, Harry recalled numbly—then whatever it was that Malfoy had managed to become. Fucking magical creatures; Harry could never keep all of the extraordinary varieties straight without Luna. Or…perhaps that should be 'despite Luna'?

No matter. Veela was close enough, really, for describing that git Malfoy.

"Well…" 'that git' Malfoy drawled into Harry's hair, and Harry wished he were far enough away to see the git's face, if only to scowl menacingly at his own personal, legally acquired, depressingly permanent Creature Feature. "It's either you or the Grim Reaper, Potter, for choice. As ever and always, I daresay, judging by previous evidence. Not being a total twat, I chose you. Willingly, this once. I'm sure even a man of limited mental capacity can understand that, given time."

"You did _not_ chose me!"

Harry managed to reel away and grabbed a handy curtain swag to maintain his newly regained independent bipedal stance. He shuffled carefully, testing his knees and ignoring his now quite painfully throbbing arse, and glared balefully. "Fucking prophecy! And that's the whole fucking _point_ of it, Malfoy! Neither of us had a choice in the matter—and you know it! So—_why_ aren't you furious? Why? What the buggering luck _is _it with you that you don't seem to even care!"

It was a pathetic little cry for help, for understanding—for empathy, and the thought of such a thing being answered kindly by bloody Malfoy was laughable, but by Merlin, they were both in the same damned boat!

"Why?" Harry, never one to back down, scowled at Malfoy.

Malfoy stepped back, swiping the very last of the shaving cream off his face with back of his hand, not a hint of expression anywhere to be found in all that bland handsomeness. Harry could see absolutely no difference from before. The git was just as smooth, just as beardless, even if _his_ fucking neck was scraped raw and tingly-sensitive by invisible but quite prickly blond hairs and he likely had the telltale stubble burn to prove it.

Evidence!

He was bloody well covered in fucking evidence! Harry snarled at the very idea. Malfoy snogging him! Malfoy sucking on _his_ throat! Malfoy's fucking ice-white, toffee-nosed, gittish cock shoved right up Harry's own bum hole! His _virgin_ arsehole!

It wasn't comprehensible; it was purely nonsense. Such things simply couldn't happen, not in this day and age! There were laws to prevent it—he had _rights_.

"Potter," Malfoy interrupted Harry's latest internal rant, by stepping smartly back and pulling the other hand away, "do cease and desist your pointless childish behaviour this instant. What's done is done. Breakfast is in fifteen minutes. You reek and you're sticky; I'm very surprised you didn't rend my sheets to pieces, what with all that dried cum over you. It's bad as glue, git, remember? Go wash up."

Harry shuddered, involuntarily. Speaking of cum, there was something slimy dripping down the backs of his thighs. Surely that wasn't?

"Ugh!" he muttered, and craned his head 'round, trying to see.

_Please? Fucking Fate? Merlin? Dumbledore?_ Harry's mind whimpered, but Malfoy—the berk— only kept right on with ordering Harry, apparently not minding Harry dripping on the green carpet. He sneered and gave Harry a little shove toward the loo.

"Move it, Potter. Stop dawdling. You require hot water, fresh clothing, and sustenance, in that order, and then we need to meet with Madame and the Headmistress straight after to confirm this joining officially via Veritaserum. The Gringott's Goblin will be here at nine sharp and the Ministry's Recordkeeper soon after. My parents are likely already awaiting us. Now, can you manage on your own or do you need a hand?"

"Green again," Harry remarked, eying the opulent loo. "Oh, snap. Figures. I," he tacked on, carefully, slowly, and with great conviction. "Hate. You. Malfoy. Remember that."

Malfoy only stretched his reddened lips into a plastic sort of sneering leer, something that might pass for a teasing grin on a less pointy, pratty, _annoying_ person. He turned on his heel to face the discreet double doors that concealed the room's built-in wardrobe, and only Harry's finely attuned Voldemort-honed senses caught the unreadable flash in his pale eyes before they were hidden.

There was a ripple at last, in all that chill calm water. Harry snarled happily, handing on to the doorjamb for support.

"Well, now. There's something new and different. Colour me surprised, Potter."

"Bugger!"

**0o0**

Harry's wrist ached something fierce.

"Bad luck, mate," Ron commiserated. "I mean, _really_."

He'd expressed his deep sympathy by knocking Harry's goblet of pumpkin juice right out of his clutches with a good, firm whack to the spine earlier, almost as soon as Harry had sat down at Gryffindor table and got situated. Harry winced at the painful memory of the Weasley brand of comfort and hoped his best mate wouldn't be inspired to do it again, however comforting it actually was. Malfoy, at his usual spot on the high end of the Slytherin table, had sat up the instant it happened and taken immediate fierce notice, fixing Ron with a scalpel-sharp glare and visually dissecting him into random parts. He'd even shown his perfectly straight white teeth in what was most positively _not_ a smile and waggled his blond brows in a meaningfully threatening manner. Harry, shivering, had been quite convinced he'd be down one best mate right quick if Ron made another move to touch him. Malfoy was a bleeding menace.

"Yeah, er. Thanks, Ron," Harry muttered. "But…well."

"Yeah?" His mate raised his eyebrows inquiringly, chewing. "What, Harry?"

Harry took a meditative sip of his refilled juice. He heaved long-suffering sigh mid-swallow, nearly choking, and guiltily remembered his (urgh!) brand new spouse's preemptive words of warning just before they'd departed Malfoy's horribly green quarters.

"Look, erm. Don't do that again, alright? Touch me? Malfoy hates it. And he's, uh. Violent."

"Yeah?" Ron didn't look like that bothered him overmuch. "So? It's Malfoy, Harry." He sneered, an expression which he did nearly as well as his ancient childhood enemy, Harry noticed.

"Veela, Ron? Painful, jealous, possessive Veela? _That _Malfoy? The new, erm, version?"

There was a long pause. Ron chewed in silence; swallowed. Nodded, unwillingly.

"Oh. Yeah, right, mate. Sorry."

"S'okay. Just don't want you to suffer, Ron. Remember Fleur, yeah?"

"Yeah," Ron was a bit greenish about the gills all the sudden, even his freckles paling. "Thanks, Harry. I'll remember. Here—you want a chop?"

He pushed the platter of them toward Harry, who grimaced.

Yes, marriage, or Bonding, or Joining or whatever the fuckity-fuck this state was Harry was now engaged in with the Git of Ages was _also_ a bleeding menace. To his health (his arse still ached, an hour later); to his threadbare sanity (Malfoy had shagged him twice last night and he had _liked_ it, both times; his brain just boggled and squirmed over that), to his now Veela-endangered best mates _and _to his NEWTs-level schoolwork, piling up, which he had skived utterly in the rush to get married. Bonded. Joined.

Whatever it was, it was now bloody official. He'd signed enough beribboned and red wax-sealed parchment scrolls yesterday afternoon to paper his old dorm room in Gryffindor.

Only because he _must_, or Malfoy would die. And then so would _he_, sod it!

Hardly fair, was it, to endure all those years with Voldemort after him, then die, then come back and actually be looking forward to a somewhat normal life, with a somewhat normal girlfriend and a hopefully prophecy-free future? No—entirely _un_fair. Not sporting.

Harry moaned, suddenly fiercely nostalgic for that familiar messy space of ex-bachelordom that was his space in the Gryffindor Eighth Years Boy's Dorm. The muffled sound caused Ron to turn his head, frown sympathetically and reach out once more. Fortunately, he just caught himself time. Malfoy, who'd never once taken his burning, searching grey eyes off Harry and his immediate environs, jerked and made as if to whip out his wand. Ron, on the lookout now after Harry's timely reminder and apparently quite wary of people like his sister-in-law, very slowly drew his trembling hand back and caught up a platter of pork chops instead, yanking them back across the table.

"Sorry, mate," he said yet again. "Rotten luck, that."

The collective eyes of Gryffindor table—including the wide, damp ones of Harry's ex-girlfriend, darted from Ron to Malfoy to Harry. A Second Year giggled apropos of nothing, apparently cracking under the muffling blanket of tension that laid over everyone in his House, now that Harry was officially allied with Malfoy—and Slytherin.

Across the way, the Slytherin contingent murmured and scowled.

Harry breathed a thready sigh of relief, nonetheless. Crises averted; Malfoy glared daggers and knives and all manner of sharp, pointy objects from his bench but he didn't rise up and start hexing. Not yet.

Ron was safe for another little while, Harry hoped.

His chosen pork chop lay limply under its congealing, concealing heap of mash and gravy, more and more unappetizing every second.

Yesterday had been an awful day.

"No way out, yeah, Harry," Ron had whinged on his behalf, grimacing, when they'd all officially been informed Harry and Malfoy were now an item, till sweet Death did them part. "Sodding bad luck, that. Why can't you win some, eh?"

Harry didn't bother protesting that he _had '_won some', but his victory over Voldemort was of no earthly use to him _now_.

Headmistress and Madam Pomfrey, sternly serious, kept right on alternating fact-filled speeches as to the duties and obligations of a Magical Creature and his or her mate.

Malfoy had stood tall and pale before one of the windows in McGonagall's office, apparently frozen solid. He'd kept his eyes on the sky and never once glanced Harry's way—not 'til McGonagall pronounced them Joined, after an alarming long string of Latin.

And Harry had buried his spinning head into his damp clammy palms and finally given in. Fate was an absolute bugger, sometimes.

Malfoy didn't deserve to die—not just for the bad fortune of possessing really bollixed up relatives.

Hermione, stymied as never before by the twin academically- and medically-assured forces of McGonagall and Pomfrey, had contented herself with tutting, tsking and clucking sympathetically, interspersed with numerous 'Oh, Harry!'s' and much petting. She'd not even time to research the matter before it was upon him and even if she had, McGonagall and Pomfrey had convinced him—all of them, actually, in one large gaggle of assorted concerned schoolmates and minions (as if Harry's mates and Malfoy's Slytherins were in any way near as deeply fucked as he and Malfoy were!)— there was no out.

Ginny had wailed like a banshee and torn out of the office, sobbing.

"I'm just _so_ sorry, mate," Ron had muttered, whacking his shoulder.

"Oh_, Harry_!" Hermione had gasped, horrified.

Malfoy had hissed antagonistically, from his post by the window. The sill had splintered under the pressure of the wicked retractable talons Harry spied from the corner of his one eye.

Talons. Eyes like a raptor's, predatory and piercing. A tilt to his proud head that told Harry Malfoy was aware all along of his every move—was tracking it, as an eagle tracks an unwary mouse.

"And that's how it is, Harry," Headmistress concluded, regret clear in her voice. "Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy have kindly agreed to be our additional witnesses, as have the senior Professors. Let's begin, then, shall we?"

"Not a moment to waste," clucked Madam Pomfrey and Malfoy at last turned to face Harry, and that had been that.

Not a bleeding hope. Not a shadow of one. There was a prophecy, damn it; another of those awful crystal balls and wasn't Trelawney totally beside herself over it? Murmuring 'the lovebirds' and other nonsense and then leering toothily at them both, scarves wafting eerily, all through the bloody ceremony-ritual-thingbob? Which commenced not even a half hour after he'd been called out of Quidditch practice to report to McGonagall's office for some unremembered infraction. Harry flinched again at the memory.

Green scarves, they were, the one's she'd been wearing, and entirely too many of them. There was far too much _green_ in his life, now.

He gritted his teeth, recalled to the present by his protesting stomach (no dinner yesterday, either!) and eyed his pork chop murderously. As he'd said (or rather, _thought_), if there were just one single sodding more prophecy, geas or inescapable onus awaiting him, he'd deep-six the whole frigging Wizard business and scarper off. Muggle life had never looked so inviting.

A nice flat in Manchester; maybe a cat for company. A job pushing paper and absolutely no magic to interfere with his life? Oh, yes! If only he could…but Malfoy, the prick, would flat-out expire in a day or two, and he'd have that on his conscious…for the very short time before he bought the farm as well.

Bloody Magical Creature Bondings—Joinings—whatever!

Harry was damned weary of facing imminent death. There was no buggering way he was expiring _now._ He'd simply _not_ give Fate the satisfaction. Not even if he and Malfoy were joined at the hip forevermore.

_So _not fair. _So _not right. _So_ tingly, his groin, all because Malfoy was still watching him avidly, eyes glittering, and by Merlin, Harry had a massive, irksome hard-on for no good reason in particular!

His arse still hurt! He was bloody famished, after being Veela-handled all the night long!

His cock throbbed, and it was torture—in a good way. He glanced up, unwillingly, and met Malfoy's eyes.

As if Summoned, Malfoy rose to his feet and made his way round the intervening tables. He was fit, yes; even Harry admitted that, but this _so _wasn't good, and it _so_ wasn't fair. He knew what was coming next; Pomfrey had taken him aside, discreetly, and advised him in vividly lurid detail. _And _handed him a helpful Ministry-issued pamphlet entitled, 'How to Accustom Yourself Gracefully and Without Undue Harm to Your New Magical Mate!' Plus, there was last night to recall for reference.

His flies were likely doing permanent damage to his tackle, they were so tightly stretched. Harry groaned. Somewhere along Gryffindor table, he could hear the muffled sniffles of his ex-girlfriend.

"…Just can't believe it, Harry," Ron was muttering. "Of all the bad—awful—bloody—buggering—_evil—_"

"Potter," Malfoy announced at Harry's elbow, in _that_ tone of voice. "Come."

"Luck—ah, _ick_!" Ron muttered out of the corner of his mouth. He glared at Malfoy and opened his mouth to protest on his best friend's behalf, but he kept his tall form a safe distance away.

_Fucking Bond—Joining—marriage; whatever!_ Harry fumed. He let a discreet hand drop to his lap and pressed on his erection painfully, hoping like Hades it wouldn't be detectable by every single person in the Great Hall.

"You know, Malfoy, Harry has to eat, alright?" Ron was staying seated on the Gryffindor bench by him but barely, a red-spotted set of knuckles curled fiercely 'round the edge of the cold platter. "Why don't you back off for a bit? Give him a ruddy chance to relax, will you?"

Malfoy hissed. He stepped forward, wedging his trim hips firmly into the gap between Harry and Ron. "Bugger off, Weasley. It's none of your beeswax."

"Shite," Harry huffed. "Thanks, Ron, but, er—shut it. I'll handle this."

He rose abruptly, scowling, abandoning his untouched pork chops and mash with a sigh that was almost a groan and reluctantly grabbed hold of Malfoy's imperiously outstretched hand.

"Fine!" he snapped at his Magical Mate. "But it's _my _fucking turn, git, and don't you dare try to duck out of it! And I'll be wanting brekkers, after. I'm not meeting with all these people on an empty stomach, you berk. "

Malfoy smiled at him—a private, 'just between us ancient enemies' kind of smile. A smile imbued with a very dangerously high level of sex appeal, entirely undiluted.

"Oh, not to worry, Potter," he drawled, and those eyes were brands on Harry's lips. "I'll feed you…trust me."

An evil thing, that smile. It left poor Ron, who'd been rapidly reduced to blinking like an utter ninny at the two of them joined tightly at the hand, shivering in his seat and swallowing convulsively. It made Ginny, three shocked speechless Gryffs down the table and on the opposite side, open her pretty pink lips in a gasp, and end that on an excited whimper.

To a man, the stalwart Gryffindors swayed under the power of Veela. _Slytherin_ Veela.

Harry fancied it was rather like a green fug descending, if Malfoy's allure were to be made tangible.

"Oh, gods, Harry!" Ron moaned, coming out of stasis to slump his reddened face into the gravy spattered tablecloth. "_Again_? He'd bloody insatiable, isn't he? Wish you joy of it, mate—I mean, I'm just so _sorry_!"

"Harry!" Ginny looked to be on the point of tears at the thought of her ex-boyfriend being dragged off stage by his brand new Magical Creature spouse for the sole purpose of vehement ritualized shagging. "Harry, _no_! Isn't there _anything _you can do? _Anything_ at all?"

"Uh—"

"Yes, well, you poor, pathetic Gryffindors," Malfoy purred, even as he smiled viciously. "I wouldn't bother with fussing at it, if I were you. Waste of time and it's not as though your Golden One won't enjoy it, trust me. He certainly did last night. And no, Weasleyette, there isn't. Trust me, I've spent a fortune in Galleons turning up every stone and merest pebble in search of a viable alternative, all to no avail. Potter's mine now; bugger off."

"But!" Gin wailed, and Harry thanked his lucky stars Hermione hadn't yet made an appearance.

"_If_ you've no further objections," Malfoy's clipped tones overrode all objections like a steam engine, "Potter here and I are off to engage in a bout of required additional consummation before we meet with the appropriate authorities. Catch you later, Gryffindorks—or _not_."

"Hate you! Hate-hate-hate-hate—umph! Fuck! _Why _do you have to _do _that?" Harry grumbled and snarled, as he was towed forcibly away by his sodding…his bloody…his blasted _spouse_! "They're my friends! That was my girlfriend you just dissed, Malfoy!"

"Yeah? Mine are right over there, Potter, and they're sick over it, trust me. Makes no difference. Not now."

"Argh! You blasted _hole_! Fuck off and die, will you?"

"Hardly, Potter." Malfoy stopped in his tracks, right before the entrance to the Great Hall, and fixed an avaricious stare on Harry's open mouth. "That's more your line, isn't it?"

_And_ snogged his Harry right in the middle of the fucking archway, right in front of bloody everyone, even the profs—_and _poor stunned Hermione, coming late down from the Library, till Harry's knees buckled and he had to supported by his fucking Git-of-Ages Magical Mate!

**0o0**

Malfoy was by the window again…or perhaps it was a porthole, really, given where they were, topographically. Harry watched him silently from one slitted eye and considered.

Git was glum; brooding over something, obviously. Not there wasn't a great deal to brood over. Harry could list at length the various ills the world had wroth upon him—them— but he was damned weary of even thinking about it. Even angst could grow wearing and there was still a rather enormous amount of physical pleasure to be accounted for.

He felt vaguely guilty over that, honestly. Didn't seem quite right to dislike the person who provided him satiation to quite that degree. But…

He watched Malfoy's hand instead, where it gripped the velvet curtain, and pondered. It was difficult to interpret the peculiar look upon the git's face, even though he was accustomed to it after nearly eight years of looking at it. Pale, pointy, serious, yes; all that, but then Malfoy was very often serious, these days. Harry only barely recalled him laughing—years ago now, wasn't it? Fourth Year, perhaps? The vicious smile when he stomped on Harry's nose didn't count, really. He'd looked quite dyspeptic beneath it, as if it were more a baring of the teeth and not a real grin.

But there was more to this glum, faraway stare of Malfoy's than mere habitual sullenness. Draco...er, Malfoy seemed to be genuinely sad over… something. Likely he'd not tell Harry about it; they were hardly soul-mates, for all this Bond-Joining-Mate crap.

Farthest thing from it, and Harry would really like to know _why_, in all the Hells, there had to be not only a second prophecy, but also a damned Magical Creature mating imperative to put teeth into it. Left him no escape, that. Not exactly sporting to save a bloke's life and then leave him to die a horrible death, was it? And not exactly Hoyle to be forced into it almost literally at wand-point by his own Headmistress, but then again, what else was new? The other prophecy hadn't been cherry, either.

Fucking Magic. Muggles didn't have to deal with this sort of thing, much. Maybe the odd ancient Greek chappie or perhaps some mythical one from an old wives' tale, but damned Wizards did this to themselves all the sodding time, it seemed, especially the idiot Pureblooded ones, and were idiotically proud of it, after!

_More power, more magic_! That's what all the old families gagged after, as if they could ever hold a monopoly over something as elemental as _that_. Made no sense, either, in the end, to dilute the human bits with _other_. Dra-_Malfoy_ hardly seemed pleased with _his_ lot, given that he was now stuck with his own worst enemy as a bloody ball-and-chain for life. Well, second worst—Voldemort had been Malfoy's _real_ worst enemy, though it had taken the barmy git long enough to realize that.

Third, actually. Lucius was no prize as a father, no matter how reformed he claimed to be now, when it was all over, even the necessary shouting and sorting. Um...ah. Fourth. Ron really actually _hated_ Drac—_Malfoy_ for a very long time—family feud and all—and he still wasn't exactly in alt over Harry's new status as one, a week later. A Malfoy, that is.

That left Harry rather low on the 'Malfoy's worst enemy' list, come to think. And really, he couldn't find it in himself to roust up much ire at the git, not at this point. It was all swamped with exquisite memories of cocks and bollocks and arseholes and tingles, now. Well, there was some residual ire, yes, but last night hadn't been anything to complain of and neither had the night before. Nor yesterday afternoon, when they both had a free period.

Strange.

A se'enight into a Magical Mating and he was starting to_ like_ it. Perish the thought!


	2. Chapter 2

"Well, Mr. Potter, we meet again."

Lucius had consumed three fresh lemons for luncheon, with extra bitters, or so he must've, what with _that_ grimace on his face, masquerading as a welcoming smile.

"Harry," Mrs. Malfoy nodded politely, _her _face entirely bland and innocuous. "Draco. You both seem very well. I trust there's been no…issues?"

A sidelong and very maternal glance aimed at her son, the Magical Creature most likely to cause those PC 'issues', elicited not even a flinch on the part of the younger Malfoy male, though Harry did glimpse another of those odd flashes of unknown emotion in the cool grey eyes trained politely on Narcissa.

"Of course not, Mother. All is more than well. Father," Draco added, politely clasping his father's hand and giving the elder man a half-bow.

"Um," Harry added, nodding stiffly only because he felt he had to. "Mrs. Malfoy, Mr. Malfoy." He did not extend a hand, even though Malfoy's other hand was firmly spread across his waist, urging him forward.

He'd signed up to save Malfoy's arse—and his own. Playing 'nicey-nice' with Lucius Malfoy was not part of the contract. Mrs. Malfoy was different, but Harry was planning on playing his cards close to his chest, being one lone lion in a snake pit.

"Please, have a seat, boys," Mrs. Malfoy invited, gesturing toward a more intimate grouping of two chairs, a low table and a sofa—an island of social parlay in the overlarge ocean of space that was the Malfoy parlour. "Tea, Harry? Ah! That does remind me: I may address you informally, Harry, may I not? As your new mother-in-law? It would feel so…gauche to call you 'Mister Potter'."

"Ngh."

Harry, stunned strangled by the very idea of Narcissa in the role of Lily Potter, reached instantly for his collar, which was in process of tightening unbearably 'round his neck. His trailing sleeve—brand new and very long and flouncy, as befitted a 'real' Wizard, per Malfoy, caught in something, snagging him and jerking him about. Fortunately, it also forced him to nod in vehement manner, which Mrs. Malfoy instantly interpreted as ready acquiescence.

"So polite, Harry, despite your unfortunate history with those horrid Muggle relatives of yours," she praised him, waving her wand over the tea table. "I do hope our family will be able to make you a more pleasant welcome."

Lucius fell into a prolonged coughing fit and subsided elegantly onto the sofa next to his smilingly assured wife, despite it.

Draco flinched, the slight movement stilled immediately, though Harry felt it throb through him—as he felt many of Malfoy's stray emotions, these days.

"Augh! Er…" he gasped. These new robes of his, though spiffing and the nicest he'd ever owned, were tailored to a 'T'. He could hardly move a muscle.

"Potter, mind the cloth." Malfoy casually disentangled Harry's starched stiff velvet robe sleeve from the lacy edge, preventing what would've been a formal tea party disaster. Lucius, eying this byplay with arched brow, sniffed audibly, having overcome his muffled hacking fit. "There you are. Sit, now. Mother will serve you tea."

Narcissa Malfoy merely smiled, a veritable Sphinx of maternal wisdom.

"Oh! Didn't see that—of course she will, git! Why we're here—**er**! I meant—Thanks, erm…Draco," Harry croaked, managing at last to unclasp the top frogging catch on his robe and falling into the spindly-legged chair Malfoy politely held for him.

_Shite!_ Harry grumbled internally. It was damned hard to be standoffish when the lady one owed a life debt to was smiling at one so kindly. In her own parlour, seated demurely next to her bastarding git of a husband.

Whilst one sat next to one's _own _bastarding git of a husband.

_Shite! _

It must terribly old and terribly precious, that chair, as it was a bit worm-eaten 'round the clawed feet and the upholstery gave off a discreet aroma of antiquely-costly must. Malfoy, wearing his polite mask, settled in gracefully on the matching antique next to Harry. He was clad all in violet velvet, which set off his colouring to a nicety. Harry sported a deep rich green, which enhanced his eyes perfectly and lent his skin a pearly glow, nearly as opalescent milk-white as Drac—_Malfoy's_. They were both dressed to the nines, he and Malfoy, as was befitting (per a vastly serious and grim Malfoy) a formal visit to Harry's newly acquired parents.

Lucius and Narcissa. Harry's new family.

_Urk! _

"Thank you, Mal—ah, _Draco_! Draco, right!" he burst out, aware that he should be doing something—if he was to be going along with this farce—anything!

What _had_ Malfoy said, exactly? Oh, right! Not to open himself up for inopportune questions. Not to give any indication that theirs was not a happy match, even if due to a prophecy. Malfoy's parents were Slytherins to the core, and terminally curious as to precisely how Harry planned to play this whole marriage act and—as Malfoy had repeated, at least twice more, just this afternoon—it was none of their business, not at this point. Their Joining was precarious enough without undue negative influence.

It was that statement that convinced the Gryffindor in Harry that Malfoy truly was sad. It was not merely his gut saying so, not any more.

"No matter, Potter. Forget it."

He was mindlessly musing over why it wouldn't be their business, these Malfoys', when it came to the matter of their only son-and-heir's marriage to a male _and_ a Potter when a China teacup of paper-thin porcelain materialized in the air before him with a small 'Pop!' The contents, he found, upon tasting the beige liquid within, were doctored precisely as he liked them—sweet and not overly milky.

Harry's wary eyes jerked from his cup-and-saucer to focus in turn upon the über-benign Mrs. Malfoy, who was watching him, a pale blonde brow raised in enquiry. A tray of dainties wafted up and off the table, zooming briskly to hover before him.

"Harry? Do you help yourself."

"Brilliant! Perfect! Not peckish at all, but thanks, er," Harry hastened to say, to fill the awkward pause. "Very much, Mrs. Malfoy. Right."

Draco—Malfoy—nudged him with a quiet elbow and Harry shut his uselessly open mouth, as no more words appeared to wish to force their way out past his knotted tongue.

"No, thank you, Mother," Malfoy replied to her silent offer. He waved off the tray carelessly. "Not for me, please. We had a late luncheon, actually."

The awkward pause resumed abruptly and then extended itself, like unwanted chewing gum, stuck to one's shoe. Harry stared at the Malfoys senior and they variously glared and smiled saccharinely at him, nodding. Draco, the git, uttered not another useful word.

To be honest, all pauses spent in the company of the elder Malfoys were awkward, damn it. He'd discovered that immediately after the rushed wedding ceremony. They'd all stood about in a group for precisely two exceptionally endless minutes; him shuffling, Malfoy coldly impatient to be off to his quarters (for instant shagging, though Harry hadn't realized that 'til much too late) and Lucius and Narcissa clearly wishing to prod but constrained by the hovering presence of the Headmistress, Madam Pomfrey, the attending professors and a nice lot of avidly pop-eyed fellow students, all witnesses to the Joining ceremony. But awkward was preferable, Harry realized, to morose. Malfoy had expressed a sincere wish that this godsawful event pass off without incident, as did Harry, in name of marital peace.

Besides, Lucius appeared to have the morose end of it covered. That made Harry smile, for the first time since they'd Apparated to the front door of this huge bloody pile.

"…Harry," Drac—Malfoy finallymurmured, and grimly essayed another polite lip twitch. It was only marginally better than his father's. "There's no need to stand upon ceremony with my parents. They are yours now, as much as mine. Please, be at ease."

Harry promptly choked. Narcissa swiveled her widening eyes to her son. Lucius snorted.

Malfoy smiled and did a bit of his Veela-ish thing.

"You wished a chance to get to know Harry better, Mother? Father? Here is your golden opportunity, then."

With a last long assessment of the inscrutable person of her son, Mrs. Malfoy took over the smiling business ably on behalf of her male kin and extended one toward Harry that was actually warm and concerned—even remarkably motherly.

"Indeed, we did, darling. It was three lumps and a dollop of cream, was it not, Harry? That is alright, then? Your tea? And you are quite sure you're not the slightest bit hungry? Boys are, of course." She nodded and Harry found himself nodding along, agreeably.

"Yes," Harry smiled in return, grateful as blazes to find a friendly face in the chill marble mausoleum they called the Malfoy Manor, and wound up babbling on, inanely. She had saved his life, after all. He could at least _talk_ to her. "Yes, thank you. It is, yes. Sugar's my one real downfall, I think. My ma-erm, _friends_, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger? They always say I have a terrible swee—ooh, oh, _ah_!"

The utterly Arctic visages of both male Malfoys turned upon Harry halted him mid-confession. Oops! It was the 'W' word, likely. Malfoys despised Weasleys; Weasleys hated Malfoys. Fact.

For all that Ron was no longer actively talking down Malfoy in Harry's hearing at this point.

Harry, nonplussed but still game in the teeth of Mrs. Malfoy's continued kind attention, abruptly switched topics.

"Yes! Well! it's a lovely home you have here, Mrs. Malfoy. Very spacious! Er, how old is it, exactly?"

"Nine hundred and seventeen years, Mr. Potter."

Lucius apparently found this topic much more to his liking. "The original keep," he went on, his voice attaining a dry, pedantic lilt terribly similar to Professor Binn's, "was built in the style of the motte-and-bailey fortresses. My forebears, the _Mal Bon Foi_, come over from Normandy with William, expanded upon that as their fortunes waxed. To a considerable extent, may I add, effectively disguising the working keep with an Italian marbled sheath in the late Renaissance, at three Galleons per square foot lading, or a great deal of expense in their time. This outlay was recompensed by the addition of the second and third Home Farms and resultant increase in profit from tillage and saleable goods. The generations after, which were by then known as the 'Malfoy', by erroneous writ of the Muggle King Henry, constructed the outranging Stables, the Gatehouse, the Dower and the Folly, in rapid succession. The first Orangeries and the larger East and West Quarters were put up during the time of the Tudors, and subsequently updated in style by GillyForth Malfoy in the year 1817. Gillyforth had a decidedly Adamsonian bent and he—"

"Hsst!" Draco—erm, _Malfoy_ leant over an inch, so his lips fetched up quite close to Harry's stunned ear. "Father will go on about this for ages, quite content. Good call, Potter," and then he actually reached out one of those long white hands of his and patted Harry's knee approvingly. "You might even learn something, if you pay attention."

Actually. Patted. Harry's. Knee!

Harry jumped but bravely maintained his polite smile. Well…his teeth were showing, at least.

Mrs. Malfoy continued to gaze benignly upon the two of them, as though they truly were sodding soppy newlyweds, and sipped her tea quietly, nibbling a biscuit every now and again. Harry, rendered mute, knee cap tingling, and not given an ice cube's chance in Hades to respond to any of Lucius's remarks in any case, found himself also nodding, with the occasional encouraging hum added as needed, at increasing intervals throughout the endurance monologue his new father-in-law subjected them all to on the endlessly fascinating topic of the Malfoy's and their preferred architectural styles over the ages, and that git Draco—oh, fuck, yes! _Draco_—he actually dared to grin behind his pricy old blue-and-white Willow teacup, and bleeding wink!

Harry endured, something he was champion at. Lucius's unrelenting relation of his ponderous knowledge could actually be considered more harmful than his previous fouled-up attempts on Harry's life, when one took into account cumulative damage to both Harry's eardrums and his ebbing interest in keeping Malfoy off the proverbial ceiling.

Still, he was practically dancing in his delicately creaky seat some forty minutes later, as Lucius showed no sign of ceasing. Fortunately, Draco must've sensed this and he cleared his throat, 'til he was able to halt the unending flow of Archi-speak, before Harry sank helplessly beneath the combined weight of too many balusters, crenellations and pilasters, plus three refills of his tea in quick succession.

"I really very sorry, Mother," Draco stated, and Harry could almost believe he was sincere, "and Father, to interrupt, but you must excuse us now. Headmistress positively insists we return to our quarters for the evenings during the week, during Term proper."

"Ah—yes, of course she does!" Harry hurried to support that bald-faced lie. "Very strict, the Headmistress. Even, er, given…circumstances."

There it was, the entirety of Harry's unwanted marriage, reduced to mere 'circumstance'. Harry's brave Gryffindor smile turned somewhat sickly. Draco coughed, discreetly, and the Malfoy parents remained bland as blancmange. An awkward silence fell, practically thudding to the parquet flooring, and after a moment, Harry realized he was clearly expected to say more.

"Um, thank you again," he came up with, understandably somewhat short on pleasant phrases when his bladder was making its urgent needs known; still, he'd be sodding floating before he begged the use of a Malfoy toilet. "It really was, ah, erm, _kind_ of you to invite me." It was nothing of the sort, of course, but Harry knew better than to go there.

"A…pleasure, Mr. Potter," Lucius, well pleased at having the undivided floor to parade his pet fancy, had considerably mellowed. His parting grimace of canines and incisors was just the two lemons strong, with only a barest sprinkling of salts and malted vinegar. Mrs. Malfoy, however, rose to her feet to bid them off, politely.

"A pity that you must go so soon, boys. I'll look forward, dearest Harry," she smiled, yet, but her voice was just pregnant with hidden promise, "to the opportunity to better acquaint myself with you on our next visit, shall I? As you are now my own son, in truth. Is that not right, Lucius dear?"

Harry jerked his head in the affirmative, as Draco discreetly pinched his bum. Lucius inclined his patrician head in a short, stiff nod at her question-though he clearly had no intention of _ever_ considering a Potter as anything other than an unwanted interloper and an arse- and Harry wondered exactly how Narcissa managed it, without touching him. Perhaps she used some sort of wandless version of the Pinching Hex.

"Yes! Yes, of course. Smashing! Thanks!" he yelped the next second, when the git next to him pinched him again, twice as hard. Sodding Malfoys. he turned to Draco with a wild glint in his eye. "Er, Ma-_Draco_. May we...?"

"And Draco, darling," Narcissa's eyes turned back to stake her son, whom she'd also been quietly observing all throughout her husband's discourse, "you'll be certain to take excellent care of your…Harry in the meantime, will you not?"

"Yes, of course, Mother," Draco huffed. "As if I wouldn't!"

"That went well," the git commented later, after he and Harry had extricated themselves from the last little politenesses Pureblooded types seem to require as much as they needed oxygen and Flooed back to their now familiar (at least to Harry; of course Draco was accustomed to it, being a bloody Prefect) room in Hogwarts. McGonagall had allowed the 8th Years Floo access as a concession to their elevated age, but Hogwarts itself was even more indulgent with Harry—and now with Draco, by extension. They could Apparate within the grounds and the castle proper, a feat only the Headmistress herself could manage.

Flooing was preferable, though, even though Harry still had a tendency to fall over. Hogwarts' inherent magic did something wonky to his normally quite accurate Apparation skills and Harry was always secretly afraid of Splinching himself accidentally.

"Yeah?" he huffed, still irate over _that_, not to mention being made to wait when he needed the facilities, (and then there was the little matter of being forced to return next week, for yet another brilliant teatime spent with the Malfoy parents!), and rather roughly shoved Draco's hips up at a better angle. The mattress was amenable to being magically adjusted, something Draco had discovered fairly recently, much to Harry's unspoken delight. "Glad _you_ think so, git. I thought it was absolutely horrid."

"Hrhmm. Shows what _you _know, Potter. You've made great strides with my father today _and _my mother seems quite fond of you already, for some reason. Still…that was well played, asking about the Manor. Thanks." Malfoy sniffed at Harry over his bare shoulder, which reminded Harry so much of Lucius he nearly went limp as a tea-soaked biscuit, mid-thrust.

Or perhaps it was the shock of being sincerely thanked by Malfoy that nearly did him in.

Three weeks into marriage had mellowed Harry somewhat. Or rather, his incredibly well-sated late adolescent sex drive had done much to ease his inner tension and those lingering feelings of ill-usage by the Powers that Were Knocking About, Interfering. It was difficult to brood effectively when the shagging action was regular, passionate and bloody exhilarating. He'd hardly time to sulk, too, what with sustained swotting, resumed Quidditch practices, making time for his friends, forging a separate peace with a reluctant Ginny, and a minimum of three good hard fucks per day, every day.

Malfoy, too, seemed a little easier in his skin. Harry caught him smiling—genuinely—at his Slytherin mates, something that had been absent from ages. He still wasn't a particularly chatty bloke, nor really ever more than either obnoxiously demanding or chilly-polite with Harry, but that was far preferable than the seven years previous of insults, hexes and ill-timed, poorly executed pranks.

And occasionally Harry would feel the care and attention Malfoy lavished upon him due to his 'mate' status had some deeper basis. But that would slip his mind, just as quickly, when the git insulted him in passing or pronounced his essays unfit for consumption by even the most misguided of doting professors. It was the little things, Harry discovered, that made marriage such an adventure.

Ron and Hermione, both, had grown somewhat accustomed. Even the Slytherins seemed inured to Harry's presence at their table at alternating mealtimes and in their Common Room every other night. Only Ginny was the lone holdout, glaring daggers at Malfoy whenever she spied him. And that was often, as time progressed and Harry found Draco had more often than not glued himself to Harry's side.

A good deal of this was ritualized possessiveness, as Draco explained in a bitingly succinct voice. His altered traits demanded that he know where his partner was at all times.

"It is required, Potter," he said, one evening in the Library, when Hermione had been chased rather rudely from Harry's side, "that I defend your honour from any other suitor. Male," he added with a high power glare at Ron, "or female. Or other." He eyed Millicent Bulstrode carefully from the haven of their commandeered study nook, jammed with the four of them and two shelves' worth of History of Magic texts.

"Ah." Harry nodded, not really paying his husband much heed. "Right. Smashing." He'd heard this before, usually as a precursor to Draco's attendance at Gryffindor Quidditch practices. To give Draco some credit, his eyes were only ever on Harry and not on the rest of the team, so it certainly didn't seem like he was stealing strategies.

"By marking my territory, violence is prevented," Draco carried on, and Harry shuddered, his sugar quill suddenly tasting vile. Oh, bugger. He knew that particular lilt in Draco's voice.

"Although I am, of course, _not_ a true Veela in the sense that I carry all the outward appearances, there are many inherited aspects of the Creatures that have entered the Malfoy heritage. We Purebloods have long regarded Veela as desirable—their power, allure, and heightened innate magic have always been of high value to the Wizards."

"Is that so, Malfoy?' Hermione asked. "But what about the Selkies and the MerPeople? Have Purebloods ever wanted to acquire their traits? And when was this, if you don't mind my asking?"

"As a matter of fact, Granger, they have. I'm sure you remember Professor Binn's lecture on the Renaissance Diaspora?"

"Oh, yes!" Hermione perked right up at that, her eyes bright. Ron groaned and stuck his thumbs in his ears. "That was just fascinating, I thought!" she gushed, and caught up a Biro to jot a few quick notes.

"Well, there was a period of experiment, all through Wizarding Europe, at that time, and my forebear, Celcius Lucius Agamemnon Malfoy the Elder was enamoured of studying the habits of the various Creatures…"

Draco's voice droned on after that, as he was actually quite the Rhodes scholar on some subjects, but Harry willed an extremely tiny Muffliato 'round his own head, desperate for some relief. It wouldn't do to have Malfoy get on his back for not paying at least cursory attention, but if he had to hear one more word delivered up in that horrible, awful lecturing way, as if Malfoy were a library come alive, he'd vomit.

Such were the trials of married life. Same old stories, over and over again. Ad nauseum.

He dropped his chin in his book and closed his weary, bleary, swot-strained eyes. He sincerely hoped Draco didn't take after his father in the long-windedness department, though recent indicators seemed to say he was in for a lifetime of dry discourse. They'd certainly never spent much time talking, he and Draco, and even now it shocked him that Draco would actually speak civilly to him without peppering his addresses with hurtful digs.

But he didn't.

Strange.

After five weeks, Harry was no longer waking startled at dawn by all the green that surrounded him. Some small part of him must've realized the bed they shared grew empty of anyone other than him at that chill, lonely hour, but that part of him wasn't overly concerned. If Draco wanted to brood by the porthole window, what of it? Harry also still got in his own short periods of personal fretting over unkind Fate, but that generally took place in the Owlry or down by Dumbledore's marble tomb, and Draco always left him unmolested at both of those locations.

Those periods were briefer and briefer, in fact. Harry hadn't much time, and less inclination.

The Astronomy Tower and the Room of Requirement were also listed amongst his particular refuges, but Harry never expected to see Draco there, nor did he. Which was, of course, precisely why they'd become his new boltholes when he truly craved some peace and quiet to cogitate rather than merely uselessly brood.

Which he did, rather more often than he was used to. In the beginning, he simply hadn't wanted to think. Thinking led to railing at Fate and its unkindness, railing led to pointless anger and outbursts, and outbursts led to yet more shagging, as Malfoy was apparently driven by his Creature imperative to mark Harry as fully his own, no argument.

Over time, Harry found he didn't mind the Marking business much at all. It was the on-and-off bickering that wearied him, and Malfoy's habit of pokering up tighter than a coiled spring whenever he was the slightest bit vexed. He'd go all frigid and bite out the minimal words he'd deign to share with Harry and then he'd be utterly meticulous about keeping his hands and elbows to himself.

'Course if anyone else so much as brushed past Harry accidently, Malfoy would be all over them like stink, snarling, but would he touch Harry of his own volition when Harry went on a tear and gave into his temper? No. Sll was icicles then and stultified, horridly polite commonplaces and, once, Malfoy even broached the weather. Harry shuddered at the memory. In all their time spent in company and all the years they'd known and despised one another before that, they'd never once been so low as to speculate on whether it might rain or snow next, and what was the forecast?

Harry hated it. It was as if Malfoy had stuffed all his bravado—all his fire—deep within him and deliberately tromped it down. As if he were afraid of it.

More and more, Harry was thinking these early morning broods Malfoy indulged in and that hovering air of incredibly tight and inviolate control were somehow linked.

For a time, he'd woken to find Draco standing by one of the bedposts at the foot-end, one set of fingers slowly stroking the velvet curtain, the other curled tight and close by his flank. His peregrine eyes had been trained on Harry instead of the watery view through the window and he'd swung away almost the instant Harry awoke.

But then they'd had that rather heated discussion concerning life after graduation and Malfoy had re-entered his personal deep freeze. It was if a frozen volcano had erupted and all Harry could make out was the dense smoke. No clear way out of the dilemma.

He wouldn't live at the Manor. Draco hated Grimmauld; said it was atrocious and should be torn down. To be honest, Harry hated it as well, though he'd never admit it _now_. It was Sirius's home, and all that Harry could claim in the world as his own, other than his vault from his parents and a blasted-apart cottage in Godric's Hollow. He'd not give that up for all the tea in China and certainly not to pander to the whims of the Malfoys, no matter how endlessly kind Mrs. Malfoy had shown herself to be over repeated teas. No matter what his unasked for lifemate might demand.

...Or Lucius, who'd unbent enough to escort Harry through the family's personal museum of Quidditch memorabilia one recent afternoon and even engaged Harry in a somewhat more than rigidly polite discussion of the Cannon's chances. Dismal, they both agreed. The wonder was the agreement, of course. Harry was still reeling over that one.

No, but certain items were _not_ to be negotiated, even if others (and this was nearly inconceivable!) apparently were-or could be. He couldn't live in place where people—good people, innocent people—had died. He could not. And it left him queasy that Malfoy would want him to.

Didn't they understand one another just bit better, now?

Or was it all simply Creature instinct, on Draco's part?

"What were your plans for Christmas, Harry?" Draco asked, of an early December morning, apropos of not much at all, really. He was thawing again, though reluctantly, and Harry had caught him back at the bedpost he favoured, of a morning. The water outside the window was choppy, in any case, so he was rather glad Draco had stopped watching it.

It hadn't done much for his mood, that. The quiet green of the bed hangings and sheets seemed to suit him better. He'd sneaked a grin at Harry just the other day, over Lucius's staunch assertion that an sizeable infusion of Veela blood made no never mind to a Pureblooded's essential Purebloodedness. That was a topic Draco and Hermione had discussed endlessly and Harry had been pleasantly surprised that Draco was able to remain collected in the face of her diagrammed inroads into the foundation of the ancient Malfoy's rather illogical investment in Veela blood.

They even agreed, he and Hermione, wonder of all wonders, and even Ron had been impressed. He was impressed by Draco's knowledge of every score and most of the major plays of every professional British Quidditch team for the last five hundred years, too, and that led to discussions of long-forgotten sorties on the Pitch and much reference to articles in Malfoy's complete collection of _Quidditch Monthly_, which dated back to at least Abraxas.

Harry was learning all about Malfoys, it seemed.

When Narcissa twitched her lip in a certain manner, it meant she was giggling like a schoolgirl. She did this rather often, particularly at her husband. Lucius never noticed.

When Lucius finally allowed Harry to tour the Manor's Library—two stories high, plus a hidden basement section—he'd hidden nothing and held nothing back. Harry had nodded at the end, and Lucius had twitched an eyelid in return. He was finally deemed acceptable. For a former Potter.

When Draco was feeling particularly pleased with life, he'd brush the tips of his fingers through Harry's hair, all casual-like, and let them linger at Harry's nape for several minutes before taking them away. He'd avoid Harry's eyes for some time after.

When he was jealous, he'd loom for as long as he could stand it, given instinct, before lashing out, perhaps to give the offending person a moment to scuttle away. As it was all too often Ginny that made him so, Harry appreciated that.

If Harry was overly tired, Draco would rub his shoulders briskly and bully him into bed early. He'd find his homework completed in the morning, though Draco always badgered him into reviewing. There were no more detentions in Astronomy classes; the Slug was in alt to have his star Potions pupil back in full force.

He seemed to know when Harry wanted to be held and when he needed to be one in charge. They hadn't even discussed their bedtime activities after that first week: it was unspoken, but very clear between them who needed what, and when.

Malfoys adored giving presents, expensive ones, and ones that would gain value. Harry now owned several vintage brooms, a second Vincent Black Lightning and a platinum wedding ring that was centuries old. He was also part owner of several of the satellite Malfoy business concerns, the ones traditionally given over to the heir apparent to run. He recognized none of his clothes 'cept the Weasley jerseys. Draco had left those strictly alone.

Narcissa was a secret marshmallow when it came to charitable giving. She supported homeless Kneazles and Knargles as well as hapless war orphans of whatever origin, and made off-the-cuff donations to whatever struck her fancy, all without her notoriously perspicacious spouse saying a word against it. And much of it was completely anonymous. It made Harry wonder.

Lucius drank a great amount of coffee—Jamaican blue mountain and oddly enough, Muggle in origin—and even more brandy—French and ages old. He was quite amusing when he was in his cups, and Harry saw where that dry wit of Draco's had come from.

"I…don't know," he replied, settling his robes. He caught up his bag and checked to ensure all his work was inside. "Why d'you ask?"

"We'll be expected at the Manor, Harry, come the Eve. T'is traditional."

Draco was pulling a fresh shirt from the wardrobe in a business-like fashion; Harry spared a moment to appreciate that. Nice chest, well muscled and lean and the scars from the Sectrumsempra had left on a silvery tracing across that cream-textured skin. He'd kissed them, every one, over and over, and hoped like hell Draco knew what he could find no words to say.

Even the best of Gryffindors didn't have that much courage at the ready. But then, Draco had never apologized for breaking his nose, either. Likely they were even, then.

"No, Draco—I can't," Harry shot back and raised his eyes to meet his husband's directly. "Not that—not there. Besides, they'll likely be expecting me at the Burrow. You know," he shrugged. "Um…you could come there…if you wanted."

Malfoy spun away, tugging on his shirt and buttoning it up rapidly. His school tie was slung over his elbow. He took up his dawn station before the porthole window whilst he fashioned the knot neatly and said nothing in reply, for a very long time.

"Draco?"

"We'll see, Potter."

He'd not touched Harry once during breakfast and Harry had never seen him pay that much attention in Transfiguration as he did that day, his eyes trained strictly on McGonagall. And then they went their separate ways 'til dinner, it being a Wednesday, and the next Harry caught sight of his husband was as a distant white-headed dot pacing the Lake shore, seen from high up on the Astronomy Tower.

He'd never felt the cold of a Scots December so deeply as he did then. No—that was at dinner, and then in the Slytherin Common Room, after. The eyes always on him were shuttered and blank. Not even Zabini and Parkinson could rouse a smirk from Draco.

A door had closed; one Harry hadn't even noticed was open.

In the eighth or ninth week of marriage to his Magical Creature (Harry had lost count by then), the Magical Creature caught a very common garden variety of flu. Harry was tipped off by the fact that Draco was still in bed in the morning.

He tossed and turned, flushed and feverish, and Harry had a hard time gaining his attention.

"Come on, Draco, have a sip of water. I'll take you up to Madame in a minute, alright?"

"Leave it, Potter," Draco wasn't to be persuaded, though his speech was slurred. "You're late. Go on—I'll get myself there, thank you."

"Draco, don't be more of an obstinate arse that you have to be," Harry scolded, hand on a forehead one could fry eggs on. He rather liked being able to fuss. Hadn't done much of that in his lifetime. "I'll take you. That way, you won't fall over your own feet on the way. You look awful."

Draco rolled over, presenting Harry with his elegant spinal cord and delineated shoulder blades. They were hunched, in a way Harry had never seen before. He'd hardly ever glimpsed Draco naked—it was always dark in his room after lights out.

"Sod off," the git muttered. "Leave me alone, Potter."

"No!" Harry yelped. "It's my damn job, Draco, looking after you when you're sick and I'll damned well do it. Now, let me find your robe. There's a passage way we can use, or the Floo if you'd rather."

"Go 'way, Potter," Draco mumbled, and wouldn't roll over no matter how hard Harry shook him.

"I'll tickle you, arse," Harry threatened, on his last vestiges of good nature. Stupid idiot. He only needed a Potion to fix him right up; one would think he wanted to feel awful. "I will. I was serious, berk," Harry added, when that elicited no response.

The awkward silence that still plagued them occasionally was back, in full force.

In a moment, Draco sighed stuffily, his chest heaving, and offered up an unwilling compromise.

"Come back after breakfast, Potter." He sneezed suddenly. Harry conjured up a tissue and stuffed it into the limp-wristed hand his miserable Magical Creature waved toward the door. "You can escort me then."

"Promise?" harry asked immediately. Draco was bollocks for plain statements. He was Slytherin and they never spoke plainly. "Exactly that, Draco? You won't try to skive off it?"

"No…" Draco shrugged. He twisted, hauling the slipping covers up over his shoulders. "No, Potter."

"Well…alright. Half hour, then. I'll be back," harry threatened. "And you'd better be ready when I come, Draco, or I'll Levitate you there."

A bleary eye rolled at him as Harry took up his bag and made his way to the door.

"Pfft," Draco snorted soggily. "Just don't bother, Potter. I'll be fine on my own."

With that, he fell into a hacking, coughing, wheezing fit that nearly had Harry stopping in his tracks.

"I'll just bet," he muttered, teetering between staying and forcibly escorting his sick spouse to Madam Pomfrey or eating with his mates first (in peace for once, without Draco there) and arranging for his and the git's note taking to be covered for the day, as well as make their combined excuses to the profs. Even with a Potion, this was a miserable case of the flu Draco had contracted, and he'd likely need a full day to recover. And likely, too, Harry wouldn't be able to just leave him be. That would be a little hardhearted, actually.

He had the door just quietly closed behind him when he heard it. A tiny, tiny noise. Something he'd not heard in a very long time.

A sound that brought back bad memories, as it reminded him of a little boy stuffed in his cupboard. A boy trying most desperately not to make a single sound—and failing.

Harry dropped his bag heedlessly and fell to his knees. If he barged back in, he'd never, never know if it was Draco making that sound. The git was too practiced at disguising all that went on inside him. Even now, after weeks of being with him, day and night, and in the most intimate ways possible, Harry hadn't even chipped the iceberg that was Draco Malfoy.

He knew a spell for soundlessly enlarging keyholes; he and Ron had used it once, to spy on Snape. The keyhole spell itself had been successful but the greasy sod must've had bat ears, for they'd never gotten a chance to really use it—Snape's eyes had snapped to the locked door as soon as Harry had cast. They'd been forced to run away then, but Draco surely wouldn't notice, sick as he was.

And Harry could check on him, once more before he scarpered off to brekkers, just to be safe. He didn't care for that sound; it made the all the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise.

He'd hoped never to hear it again.


	3. Chapter 3

**HD 'Psyche' 3/3**

Draco was still abed, just as Harry had left him, but in a different position. He'd rolled over, and curled up into foetal position, knees tucked as close under his chin as he could. And there, bunched before him and clasped tightly in his bare arms, was Harry's favoured pillow.

And there—just there—was that horrible sound, made visible. For Draco's lips were moving, dry and chapped, and so repeatedly chewed on, Harry could make out the small translucent flaps where bits had been nearly chewed off.

And the sound was 'Harry'.

The git's face was silvery wet—under his tightly scrunched up eyelids, where dampened lashes brushed his hectically flushed cheeks; under his reddened nose, where the skin above his upper lip was runny with snot.

"Harry," was what his Magical Creature was saying—no, mouthing—over and over, all the while smearing Harry's pillow with various bodily fluids where they dripped, ever so slowly. "Harry."

"Spying, are you, Potter?"

"What? You don't trust your own husband?"

The supercilious voices of Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini were a one-two blow to Harry's unguarded midsection. It was fortunate he'd already stopped breathing, caught up as he was in what his eyes were plainly telling him, though his mind was still leagues behind.

"Wh-What?" Harry gasped. "No! He's sick! Draco's sick—Was just checking on him—really!"

"You should at least try it, you know," Zabini's sneer cut him off mid-stammer. "Trusting. Give him a little credit, yes?" He moved deftly to step around Harry and his school bag and stalked off, nose in the air.

Parkinson, following, nodded sharply in Harry's direction and scowled down her unfortunate nose.

"As he flat out _lives_ for you, Potter—always has, the poor thing," she added, haughtily, before she, too, moved round Harry's stunned figure. "Go figure."

"Er-ah-but," Harry managed, but the Slytherins were already gone. The whole dungeons were deserted but for he and Draco; all the students had gone off to breakfast.

"But," Harry said to the empty corridor. "I only—I was."

He couldn't leave. Not like this.

Harry rose to his feet in that knowledge; sure of that one thing, at least, if nothing else. But what to do? What to say? He'd never expected this—this was. This was…a Stunner.

It was the sodding prophecy; Draco was a Veela, or something like. There were the reasons; there were no other. It was all just rotten luck…right?

Leaving his bag, he placed his hand on the latch, turning it soundlessly and ending the previous cast with a mental 'Finite!' He remembered-just-to spell his shoes soundless in time, but that didn't prevent him from going on tippy-toe across the plush forest green carpeting, so familiar now to his eyes.

The room was dimmer than he recalled; Draco must've spelled the sconces off. The only light was from the one window; the window Draco always gazed through every morning, his expression severe.

Draco hadn't heard him, but he had ceased all sounds in any case, involuntary or not. His lips were firmly closed in a thin, tight line. Another wadded tissue lay crumpled next to his one visible fist, still gripping Harry's pillow. The pillow itself was so tightly held, Harry was amazed the room wasn't filled with a down snowfall from it bursting under pressure.

He looked simply awful, Draco did—death warmed over, and that was being kind. Dark circles under his eyes and hair mussed; paler than fat-free milk except for the two high spots of crimson the fever brushed across those angular cheekbones of his. His breathing was stertorous; wheezy and moist, and he was shivering, ever so slightly, as if he were frozen and would never know warmth again.

It clutched at Harry's heart, that. He never cried—never!—but this. This was _so _very awful, witnessing his proud and meticulous…husband...brought this low—yes, _husband_, for the Wizarding world was most emphatically not Muggle but that was the closest translation Harry could think of. And no Malfoy should ever be this poorly off-even Harry thought so, and he was only a Malfoy by marriage!

He hovered over the still, pale form for a long quiet moment, with a hand outreached, caught in the crossroads between one plan and another. If he touched the slope of Draco's shoulder, he'd frighten the shite out of him—the last thing a sick man needed. If he didn't…

If he didn't, Draco would believe he was still alone, and he might make that sound again, and for all the world, Harry never wanted Draco to feel the need.

Not as he had, alone in his cupboard, ordered roughly to 'Be still, you bloody weirdo!' by Uncle Vernon. Not allowed to cry, nor utter a peep, even if the pain building up in his chest were to tear it apart.

Harry Potter, who never cried, _ever_, blinked rapidly and felt his eyes watering hotly.

In the space between the fall of that one lone teardrop and the strike of it against Draco Malfoy's lean body, Harry gasped in alarm and got his sweaty palm laid across that particular patch of chilled, exposed skin. Draco never felt it, but Harry did, as it rolled warm down the back of his hand.

Funny. He'd not known he felt this way; not until just now.

"Draco? You alright, there?"

**0o0**

"The fuck?"

Draco opened a red-veined grey eye and startled, whipping his other hand from beneath Harry's tortured pillow and feebly waving his wand. But he got the fisted one swiped across his damp face incredibly quickly for an ill man, in a vain attempt to erase the telltale damp.

"It's you," Draco muttered, with some degree of loathing, and ended it on a sneeze. "Potter."

Those _were_ tears-or had been. Harry blinked his own eyes rapidly, forcing his back when they came. He'd no need to cry now—and no time. Besides, Draco had twisted his chin into Harry's sodden pillow and hidden his face entirely the next moment, so all evidence that he'd been miserable was covered up by a green pillowcase.

"Shhh! It's alright—it's alright," Harry babbled, desperately wanting to stroke the flinching skin beneath his hand but somehow afraid to. If he did, perhaps Draco would come completely undone—and he couldn't bear that. "It's only me. I, er—I heard you. I mean, I wanted to check on you again—see if you wanted tea or—or…anything."

There was a moment's silence, punctuated only by Harry's rapid breathing and the sound of soft cloth –the pillowcase—sliding across skin. Emerging once more a moment later-but also most definitely reluctantly-the single grey eye blinked at Harry's worried face slowly, assessingly. Draco, having seen whatever it was he needed to see there, heaved a huge weary sigh, relaxing back into the twisted sheets and twitching them fretfully into some semblance of order. Harry noticed he didn't quite release the pillow, though he did shrug his body away from it just a bit-or maybe it was that he pushed it away from him, but not wholly.

Harry frowned at that. It was only a pillow Draco was silently rejecting, but it was _his_ pillow. That smarted, it did.

"And what was the point of this pointless return, Potter?" Draco demanded crossly, his normally even tones croaky and thick. "You'll miss all chance of eating a decent meal if you don't hurry, now. So, go. I'm perfectly fine."

"No!" Harry burst out, and then gingerly patted Draco's shoulder. "Erm, no—you're not. Obviously. Um…Draco?"

The contrary git had closed his one visible eye again and was pointedly ignoring Harry, hunching his shoulders. Harry tried again.

"Dr-Draco?"

"...Yes? What, Potter?"

"Were you—were you saying my name, earlier? You were, weren't you?"

"Why would I be, Potter? I was asleep, thanks so much—'til you came and woke me again."

"Er…you." Harry halted. This wasn't going well; he was no closer to discovering what was going on in that labyrinthine mind than he'd ever been. Time to change up his tactics.

"Do you..._do _you? Do you, ah..._want_ me, Draco?"

Both eyes snapped open. Harry, now that his own eyes were clear again and nicely dry, could see Draco's stare was somewhat glazed. He really did have a substantial fever, then. Maybe it explained the wryly barmy twist that curled across his upper lip or the sing-song quality that crept into Draco's reply by the second syllable.

"Want you, Potter? Of course I want you!" The lip curl morphed into a brilliantly mental grin. "Why wouldn't I? You're keeping me alive, aren't you?"

"Erm."

"And then there's your body, Potter," Draco added, his tone musing, his gaze taking on a wicked sparkle. "It's rather fit, that, and if I'm to be landed with a bloody hero, he should be a fit hero, don't you think?"

"But—"

"Your damnable eyes and that thatch you call hair, Potter—all good," Draco twinkled, and Harry caught a worried breath, which accelerated abruptly when Draco flattened a hot palm across his shirt front.

"Your nipples, Potter. I like them. I rather admire your thighs, as well. Very trim, you are. Like a racing broom, Potter. Really."

"A-A broom...?" Harry twitched; he'd a bad feeling about this. Draco would regret saying all this nonsense to him when he was healthy again, and then he'd likely retreat again, just as they were becoming comfortable.

"Sometimes I think I love your hands best—Harry." Harry's eyebrows jerked up at the word 'love'. Draco had never, ever used it in reference to him, nor any part of him, not even when shagging. "Oh, yes, Harry. Harry, Harry, Harry. It's a lovely name. Rolls off the tongue quite deliciously, really. Did you know that, Harry?"

"Draco—um, I think maybe I ought to—"

"What, Harry? Summon Pomfrey? Am I frightening you?" The hand, which had been lying quiescent across Harry's breastbone, scorching him right through the thin fabric, began to move in slow, soothing circles. "It's the Veela, isn't it? Yes. I can see that."

Draco nodded firmly, tipsily, with a bit of a chin wobble even as Harry shook his head in a negative.

"I'm not frightened, Dra—"

"Oh, I know, Harry," Draco interrupted him. He smiled, and the glitter in his red-veined grey eyes went soft. He sniffed, too, a reminder that he was still ill, for all he seemed terribly lucid. The hand slipped sideways, resting over Harry's thundering heart. "I know. Believe me, I'm grateful. There's not many who face up to wedding their schoolyard enemy with equanimity, just because the git's sprouted a few anomalies—just because he'll flat out die if one doesn't. 'Course you'll die, too, and there's that damned prophecy. Isn't there? What was it again? Some doggerel cant—_To the victor goes the spoilt, Veela twisting, Veela foiled—Pureblood scion not so pure, Blood muddied to the core_—"

"_They will Join or they will die, both together, by and by_," Harry took it up, the wisps of smoke that drifted across his mind's eye firmly etched there in memory from the moment Trelawney thrust the second crystal orb beneath his nose that day in McGonagall's office months ago. "_Soulmates, bondmates, ever after_—"

"_Happily or no, twined eternal by Fate the Master_," Draco finished off, in a whisper, his eyes slitting nearly closed. "Nice summation, yeah? Wonder who came up with that one?"

"Grindelwald, I think," Harry remarked, casting his mind back over all the facts and trivia McGonagall and Pomfrey had attempted to stuff into his head in the space of a quarter hour, just before he was hitched for life to a Malfoy Veela.

For a moment, neither spoke. Draco's breathing was harsh again, and Harry could hear the wet trickle of it in his no doubt quite sore throat. He cleared his own. Sodding prophecies aside, his muddied Pureblood spouse was in need of a good Potion to buck him up. He still needed to get the berk up to see Pomfrey; sort him out.

"Come on, I'll help you—" he began, but it seemed the odd conversation wasn't over yet.

"I was very pleased, you know—Harry. To learn of it. Did you never wonder why that was?"

Draco's voice was soft, his brilliant eyes still closed. The fingertips were caressing Harry's chest, working their way quite casually through Harry's mother-of-pearl buttons, parting them. All his shirts had very nice buttons these days, courtesy of the Galleons and Galleons Draco had so casually dropped kitting him out.

"Er—Draco."

"I wanted you, you see," Draco went on, nearly whispering. "And how better to have you, Potter? A prophecy _and_ the Veela requirement—it simply couldn't be better than that, could it?"

"What, Draco?"

That took Harry back a step, mentally. He'd not thought Draco had ever quite accepted being stuck with him, of all people, as a lifelong partner. They were both just making the best of it, weren't they? Well, maybe it was a bit more than that now, for him at least. He rather liked this belonging to someone, and especially if the someone was fit and quick-witted and challenging, and had always forced him to sit up and take notice.

"Worked out, it did, Harry. Very convenient. I got you, with a minimum of fuss and bother, and spiked that stupid ginger bint's guns with hardly any effort." Draco raised his lids again, fixing his narrowed eyes firmly on Harry's parted lips. "You see, Harry, she wanted a hero, and that was all it was. Me, I require rather more for my satisfaction."

He'd Harry's shirt gaping open now, with deft use of those fever-hot fingertips, and Harry couldn't help but tingle at the sound of the word 'satisfaction'. Who knew a few syllables rolling of like honey off Draco Malfoy's flapping tongue could be such a total turn-on? Even with a runny nose, Draco was quite…quite heady.

"I've wanted you, Harry, for a very long time, did you not realize?" The grey eyes fixed Harry's confused green ones like talons, digging in. Speaking of, he could see little vestiges of the Veela blood in Draco now that the watery light through the porthole window had brightened. A sheen to his lint-white hair that was glossy as the pinfeathers of an eagle; the thin golden ring around darkened pupils, contracted suddenly to a raptor's wild glare. But Draco wasn't glaring—not at all. On the contrary, Harry had never seen such a sweet expression on those features.

"For ever and a day. And I did everything I could think of to make you take notice, did I not?" The school robe Harry wore over his parted shirt was casually shoved off his shoulders. It sagged 'round his elbows as Malfoy's other hand went to make sure work of his belt buckle. "Do you deny it, Harry?"

"Draco! You're ill, idiot!" Harry burst out, interrupting that soft flow of confidence. "You shouldn't even be thinking of shagging—you're burning up!"

Draco only grinned, a mad glint in his eyes. They were engaged in tracking over Harry's face—his lips and the faded silvery zigzag of his scar, his flopping fringe he'd just shoved a worried hand through. His throat, which Draco eyed hungrily.

"Oh, no, Harry. You don't get it, do you?" Draco mocked him now, but terribly kindly, judging by that smile. Harry suddenly felt all of his godson's age, being babied by an adult. "I don't need Potions or Pomfrey or the Infirmary—not to feel better. I only need you, Harry. That's all. All I ever did. Come here, then," he ordered softly. "Heal me."

"Wh-what?" Harry managed before those smiling lips covered his. "Draco! You can't—we!"

"I can. I will. I must, Harry," Draco countered, and the unreality of this, compared to all their other shags was a Joined couple, was amazing. It had always been all about the physical, that, and the necessity. Consummation was required, simply to continue living—a practical reaction to Fate's express orders to unite. Now Draco's fingers—his burning intent gaze—the drift of the jagged wisps of nearly bitten off skin on his dry lips, they spoke of something greater.

Something _not _covered in the Ministry's pamphlet; _not_ addressed by the second fucking crystal ball that had ruined Harry's life just as badly as the first one. Or so he'd believed.

Mayhap his head was in a different place, now.

"I want you—have always wanted you, Harry," Draco was muttering in his ear. "Need you, and didn't think I'd ever get you. This is everything, Harry—all I require. You in my bed—you in my reach, whenever I want. Did you know that, Harry?"

"But—but," Harry protested, though it was hard to think with lips nibbling down his neck. Draco had tugged him down, so that he sprawled just over his spouse's chest, only preventing himself from flattening it under his weight by great exertion of determined muscle. "You never acted—you never said!"

Draco was sick—sicker than blazes—or he'd never be saying all this rot. Delirious; had to be. This was so not like him—Mr. Cooler-than-a-Cucumber Malfoy. Cold-as-Ice Malfoy.

"We were forced, remember?" he managed, and tried even harder to think clearly over the thunder of his own heart. "Made to—you didn't—I could tell, damn it! You never chose me!"

"Oh, I wanted it, git," Draco's voice murmured seductively 'round the tongue he'd insinuated into Harry's ear. "Wanted it so badly, Harry, even if _you_ didn't, to have you. Come here, damn it. Come closer," he whispered. His hands were on Harry's back, pushing, impelling. "Stay."

"I—I don't get—" Harry got out, just before he was dragged under. A sea of bewilderment, punctuated with slurps of tongue across jowl, eyelids and earlobes. "You never said—" And there wasn't much else he could say when Draco's bared arms exerted pressure and dragged him into the bed.

"You wouldn't look at me, Harry. You wouldn't see, no matter what I did, yeah?" Draco was growling, and tugging, too, 'til Harry's school clothes gave way. "I tried everything—was so fucking angry at you. Some great powerful Wizard, you were, and still such a speccy git, couldn't see the nose on your face," Draco kissed it, the very tip, and Harry's poor overloaded brain reeled.

This was mad—completely barmy. Draco was—and so was he! Empathy aside for the needy man alone in his sick bed; attraction for the Veela shoved forcibly to the wayside, Draco had never shown the slightest interest in Harry as anything other than a target for his ire. From that first moment—

No. The first moment had been Madam Malkin's robe shop and Harry remembered a smile, despite all the dark murky filter the Dursley's had laid over his first history-making meeting with Draco Malfoy.

He'd never quite manage to stuff that smile into obscurity, where it belonged. Never.

"I tried everything—Pansy caught on in Fourth Year, you know?" Draco had Harry's robe completely off, and was yanking down his pants, the buckle of his belt a cold scrape of metal between them. "Yule Ball. Laughed her arse off at me, pulling pigtails, chasing after you, later. Never worked—never even a rise, Harry, but at least you didn't ignore me. At least that," he gasped, and buried his burning face and clogged nose in Harry's swallowing throat. "There, that's better," he announced triumphantly in a hoarse whisper a moment later, having managed to rid Harry of his pants. "Want you."

"Draco!'

Harry's shoes—silenced still—were toed off by narrow feet that were almost prehensile in their strength, He felt the bite of veiled claws across his back, and arched, gasping. Even Draco's bloody fucking ankles were fit.

He certainly wasn't struggling and those moments of brooding he'd indulged himself in? So much smoke-and-mirrors, really.

Draco's Veela blood was so thin, so dilute, but strong enough yet to render the git even sexier. It sharpened his already pointy features, sculpting them into chiseled lines Harry's eyes could follow for hours. So much time he'd spent already, watching Malfoy—following Malfoy. Obsessing over Malfoy, as if that were perfectly normal and to be expected, really. And he'd had to be practically kicked in the arse by a sodding prophecy to realize it.

"Come, come on, Harry," Draco commanded, rather breathily, and rolled them over, so that he ended up crouched atop Harry like some conquering hero—or the opposite: a talkative erudite villain, declaiming his grand plan.

"You blind git, Harry," Draco bit out, and snogged Harry's open mouth right after. This was no cunning evil genius, no, Harry thought. This was insane—Draco had to be fucking well hallucinatory—but there was nothing evil here. "Never twigged it, did you? The Weasleyette knew it, I daresay—jealous bint, that, even for a ginger, but you never knew, did you?"

"Knew? Knew what? Fucking say it, Draco."

Harry arched his hips up. Those narrow, razor-tipped hands—very boney at the moment, what with those Veela traits—they were all over a place dear to Harry's heart. His groin was throbbing like an open wound, all the blood in his circulatory system rushing there. Certainly, there was little enough it left in his brain to properly assimilate this—this confession, was it?

"Wanted you," Draco hissed again. "So—fucking—pleased, Harry, to be Veela. Veela all along, damn it! Or did you never wonder I wanted your hand so badly I could taste it, yeah?"

"Er—huh?" Harry asked, barely intelligibly, as his spouse laid his fever-kissed lips on Harry's cock and he felt it swell like a mainsail in a gale. "Unh?"

"Should've known, all that while, but it took a fucking toy to tell me, Harry," Draco growled, chest rumbling, and Harry's mind boggled at the idea of one of those ominous crystal balls from DOM's room of them being referred to as a mere plaything. "As if. As if I couldn't recognize my own mate, my own _destiny_! Stupid sods!"

"What?" Harry barked. "Who? Who was stupid, git? Me?"

"Father, and the Dark Lord and your precious Headmaster, Harry. He never told you, did he, why we were such sworn rivals? Why I never dropped it, even after you hurt me? Did you never even _think_, twat? Why that was so?"

"Ah?" Harry was rather taken up with the feel of Draco talking rapidly 'round the head of his cock; his 'thinking cap' was sadly askew. "Er, yeah? I guess?"

"Think _now_, Harry," Draco commanded, and rose up above him again, his fiery hands wide across Harry's pecs. "Think back, git, and know I wanted you—and you never, ever wanted me! Of course I hated you, Harry—why wouldn't I? You bloody heartbreaker!"

"No—I mean—you hexed me, of course, but that time when I was Snatched—you didn't...Draco?" Harry's puzzlement had to be splashed all over his flushed face, damp now from the moisture that had remained in Draco's luxuriant eyelashes, his salt-tracked cheeks. Draco had rubbed it off on him, what with all this soppy, soggy nuzzling he was doing. Harry was a melty mess beneath him. "You're saying that…?"

"That I have ever been yours, Harry, and you mine. We don't need some stupid prophecy to lay that out, git. Common sense would've done it, ages ago, if anyone had left us alone long enough to sodding think!"

Draco was afire. A brilliant flame burning atop the slow sizzle that was Harry's very interested dick. With a feral grin, he grabbed at it, slicked as it was with his own saliva, and aimed it true and straight at his arse.

"Ahhha...hah!" Harry howled, his foreskin stretched unbearably by the pressure of a sodding black hole of a sphincter. So...fucking…tight! It could cut him off—and he'd be alright with it, being castrated by Draco's taut little rim of muscle.

In fact, the git could pretty much do anything he cared to now, and Harry wouldn't mind it. Would compensate and make excuses and go all bendy to accommodate. The little things, yeah? That's what they did—married people. Take tea with Wizards who tried fruitlessly to kill one and Witches who turned the world upon its head to save one, every Friday afternoon at four sharp, for instance.

"Fucker!" Harry yelped, anyway, because he prized his bits and planned to use them for quite a long time to come. "You're cutting my bloody dick off, prat! Relax if you're going to do that—you're not anywhere near ready yet! Jeez!'

"Ready as I'll ever be, Potter," Draco snarled, grinning in that entirely mental way he'd taken on since this flu had settled on him like a wet wool blanket. His grin was brilliant, for all it was fuzzy 'round the edges. "Ready for _you_, git, no matter what you throw at me! Now shag me, do, so I can sodding well _show_ you."

"Gah! Idiot!" Harry shrieked back, and then his cockhead finally forced through to the glove-soft channel that lay beyond and Nirvana blossomed behind the eyelids he clenched tight and instinctively upon discovery. "Is? Is?" he got out, his chest heaving. "Dra—?"

"Is what, Harry?" Draco purred, and settled atop him in a very proprietary motion, eyes gone from razor sharp to molten pools of adoration. "Is what, my own? Tell me!"

"_This _what you feel, when you're in me?"

Harry wanted to know that, yes, but he wanted to touch all his husband more—every pale inch, every tiny invisible hair, every fold and crease and jut and rounded edge. He wanted to grab hold and take and keep—and his mind was floating on an ocean sea of unearthly pleasure; sparks flying up his arms from everywhere his fingertips landed. If this was not Fated, he' eat his brand new replacement Firebolt, the one Draco had just gotten him.

"Like I'm dying, Harry?"

Draco owned hands, too. They were all over Harry, having magically multiplied, and his hair tickled suddenly across Harry's forehead when Draco leaned down to press a gentle kiss against the corner of Harry's open mouth.

"Like there is nothing else but you, ever? Oh, yes. Yes, that's it." He closed his eyes, drawing back to pump his hips up and down, send them back into that rocketing rhythm.

"That is all that there is, Harry. All I wanted."

Harry nodded frantically. He knew this. Had known it every time Draco breeched him, silent and intent in the dark behind the curtains of the huge four-poster. Surrounded by green, beneath the waters of the Lake, in another world he'd never conceived of, back in his days in the high aerie of Gryffindor Tower.

That was done and over with; that chapter finished. This was next, this slow unfolding of motive and meaning, hidden all along in plain view, if only he'd had some perspective.

But he could see now.

Clearly. Well…mostly.

"Why?" He struggled to get the question out, but it had always bothered him, even from that first night they spent together. "Why—the—window? Why—not—stay?'

_With me_. His bloodstream was full of that imperative need to know—if all this was true, then why the constant retreats? Why the cold silences and the furtive glances that never told him anything more than Draco allowed at any given instant? Why were they needed, those useless wards and shields and opaque windows, when all the world had practically forced them together and given their full on blessing to a match that must've seemed made purely in Hades?

"Draco?"

Draco's jaw was taut, Harry noted. His hands were fists again, white-knuckled where they rested on Harry's collarbone, holding him firmly in place on the springy mattress with the promise of weight behind them. He opened his eyes again to glare at Harry, and the Veela was gone, receded for the moment. Stared at Harry, anger ceding to rue, and looked to be all of twelve—thirteen—and frightened withal.

"You are just so dense, Potter. I do wonder, sometimes, what I was thinking."

And bit his lip, and Harry heard the faintest echo of his name resounding in the darkest corners of recollection, even as Draco's hips enfolded and his body took Harry in him gladly, eagerly, arse expanding and contracting. So contradictory, that. But it wouldn't be long now, 'til they came. He only had a moment, really, to learn this.

"Huh?" Harry prompted, and pinched Draco's arse cheek out of sheer spite. Enough already!

"Whatever am I to do with you, Four-eyes?" Draco wanted to know, and his thighs settled into stillness for a moment. "Now that you're mine?"

Caught, Harry gave his all to listening—carefully. Hearing, maybe, for the first time, _ever_.

Every twitch of eyebrow; every telltale glint in grey eyes; every degree of that grinning face, from the surface challenge to the vast sea of chaotic feeling that lay underneath the glacier. From point of charm and light of allure Harry mapped the geography of his fated soulmate; from hank of hair hanging, boyishly split, curled by sweat, to tight skin that molded mind and fair form, barely containing them. All this now was Harry's; had always been Harry's, had he but known it was up for offer.

He'd have moved heaven and earth to take it, long ago. Had he known.

"But wait for you to catch on, my own," Draco went on, and Harry could clearly hear the freedom fever had lent. "Sort it out. There's a fine mind in there somewhere, Harry, buried under all that Gryffindor excess and that horrid hair of yours I love to touch. I knew you would see, some day. I only have to wait."

Draco Malfoy's tone had never been so fond. Harry heard the same nuances in it he heard with Molly, when she scolded Arthur. Draco's gaze was full of light, even in the green-toned sanctity of their bedroom.

"But you're rather dense, Harry. Always have been. And your Granger is not all she'd been cut up to be, not that I blame her. There's not much in books on Veela, and for a reason. We're secretive, Harry, and we don't share—not knowledge, not our mates, not anything."

"Ah." That made sense. Harry nodded.

"And I'm a Malfoy, Harry. Malfoy's never give anything away for free. We know our value, believe me. We have honour, even if we're cunning. And I would not force you for the world, Harry Potter. Not a bit of it. Not now."

"This is love, then?" Harry's brow crinkled. He was flat on his back on Draco's bed, and yet still felt as though he was falling. Had been falling. Was diving, actually, into a world he'd even known existed, only to find he was comfortable there.

"This?"

He flapped a hand at all that had changed in the space of a quarter hour. It was immensely quiet, here in the dungeons, beneath the level of the lake. The cool watery ambience was sun-spangled. The glass of the porthole window glinted diamond bright and beamed off Draco's hair.

"You? Me?"

Malfoy smiled. With his eyes only, because his mouth was on Harry's and busy enough, snogging. He moved his arse again, a slow rock to get them started. They'd a lot of catching up to do, Harry knew. Better to get a move on; not waste time. And Draco needed a Potion, because his nose was running.

Harry didn't mind it, not so much. He conjured a tissue with a snap of the fingers and ripped his mouth away from Draco's salty one.

"Ew, gross. Here, you berk. Stop dripping germs on me, already."

"Dolt," Draco smiled, and his eyes were ice-free. "I hope I give it to you. Then I can keep you in bed longer."

Harry choked on muffled laugher. Draco rose without warning and plummeted, tightening his arse 'round Harry's never-flagging cock, all the while clutching a sodden wad of paper like a bloody talisman. The sun shone through the water, illuminating all within—cool and green, warm and brilliant.

"I think," Harry remarked, blinking at a stray beam that blinded him, "I could get used to this."

"What?'

"Marriage, git. Er—Joining. Whatever you call it, officially. What did you think I meant?"

"Wanker," Draco shot back, sniffing. "Took you long enough." He scowled and the talon tips that edged his long fine fingers, courtesy of ancient blood and idiot Malfoy dilettante scholars, tickled up Harry's exposed ribcage. "Put your back into it, then. I'm waiting."

Finite


End file.
